


Unsnap My Heart, Baby

by Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage, ZanderFrae



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Bisexual Character, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage/pseuds/Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZanderFrae/pseuds/ZanderFrae
Summary: The Avengers aren't the only heroes who lose loved ones to the Snap... and Wade is not handling it any better.
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Laura Barton, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue

[FIVE YEARS AGO]

**[Y: It's quiet…]**

“No shit, Sherlock. Of  **course** it’s quiet. All the baby chimichangas and blind people of the casa are sleeping.” Wade Wilson was not, of course, a baby chimichanga. He was, in fact, a heavily scarred, amateur cook dancing in only an apron to a familiar tune and lyrics no one had ever heard before.

**[W: Only to avoid your amateur cooking.]**

“Who you calling ‘amateur,’ wise guy? These are award winning...” Wade narrowed his eyes and sniffed. “Hey, Al! You want a burrito?”

**[Y: Still quiet ~]**

“I don’t need your sass right now, Yellow; I need Al’s,” he muttered before turning off the stovetop and oven. “AL!” The nearly-nude wanna-be chef yelled, drawn out and pleading. Before Yellow--or White--could say anything, he grumbled, “Still quiet. I know. Where the ever living fuck does a blind woman go in the middle of a gorgeous day like this? And  **_how_ ** does she do it so silently?”

**[W: Maybe she's DEAD]**

“Hey! You hush your filthy, floating box!”  _ But... it wouldn’t hurt to check. She  _ **_is_ ** _ old.  _ Much to his--temporary--relief, the only thing Wade could find in Al’s room was an oddly placed pile of dust on the edge of the bed and inside her slippers. “Huh... whatever sinks your canoe, ya old kook.” The Merc With a Mouth shrugged and shot off a quick text to Vanessa. She  **_always_ ** loved his cooking; that’s why he wasn’t allowed to do it in  _ their _ apartment.

[THREE HOURS LATER...]

Wade burst through his own front door, trying not to panic. She never took so long to answer--unless working, but he knew what to expect during those hours. That wonderful, gorgeous, brilliant woman woke at the first note of his text notification. Something was wrong.

**[Y: Told you so.]**

“Vanessa? Baby?” He didn’t have time to respond to White or Yellow. He  **_just_ ** got his baby back. Systematically, he checked every nook and crevice in the public areas and bedroom with no luck. Fear burning in his heart, Wade toed open the bathroom door and took in the odd sight of a full bath with a topping of slime and just a bit of dust on the ground beside it. A book floated in the slimy water; candles were lit; and Vanessa’s glowed from just under the dust.

He dropped to his knees and crawled to the tub, staring at the remains for what felt like minutes but White and Yellow assured him was actually hours. The grumbling of his stomach shook him out of the shock, and he dipped a finger into the bath sludge for a taste. “Oh Thor... no. Please, no!” He curled up around the dust and phone, tears dripping off his chin. “I just got you  **back** , ‘Nessa. What happened?”

Having ignored White and Yellow for an indeterminate amount of time, Wade was just about to pull himself together and figure out who had turned his people into ash.  ***ding* *ding* *ding* *ding*** He was startled out of growing his resolve by the notifications on Vanessa’s phone going wild. Articles, news channels, emergency broadcasts, emails, and social media were all in a panic regarding mysterious disappearances. The furrow in Wade’s brow deepened even as mind reeled, soaking up all the implications. Estimates in population dissolution ranged from optimistic 25%

**[Y: Of course Fox News is gonna try and downplay this. There’s as many browns as whites disappearing.]**

to an over-zealous 75%. Most bodies of news agreed by 7 the next morning that a perfect **_half_** of the world had been turned to dust overnight.

By that point, the survival of some of the Avengers had been reported, decimating Wade’s hopes that maybe this was a Rapture of sorts. Not-Quite-Biblical-But-Moral-Enough-To-Save-Nessa-and-Leave-My-Useless-Ass doesn’t work when Earth’s-Mightiest-Heroes are also partially still here but partially not. So it wasn't personal. It wasnt even  **_direct_ ** . "How'm I gonna bring you back or get revenge? It was so… fucking…random!"

Wade finally forced himself to his toes and swatted away the hundreds of white and yellow bubbles that filled the air. Once the air was clear, he let himself bend backwards, collapsing headfirst into the bathwater.

**[White and Yellow fill the air around him again, increasingly unintelligible and panicked.]**

******

[FOUR MONTHS LATER...]

Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children was one of the few places that failed to bring Wade to his metaphorical sobbing ninny knees. None of the mercs had been able to decide if the Snap counted as a death toward the pool, so they cleared the slate and started over. No memorials. No constant reminders of the people they'd lost. Clint Barton wasn't the only goodie to turn merc, after all; the school wasn't even much quieter than it had been before. The Merc with a Mouth pushed his way to the bar and slammed down another confirmed kill--his 78th since Vanessa's disappearance--and demanded some delicious poison.

From the corner of the bar Weasel had watched Wade walk in with an aura of utter menace. It was no surprise that most people avoided him here, even more than they ever had before. He watched as the Merc with a mouth came towards the bar, his once jovial voice now ice as he made his demands.

Watching his friend slowly descend into this spiral of killing was chilling to say the least. Wade's once relatively decent moral code had crumbled to dust along with Vanessa it seemed, taking on any and all jobs so long as it didn't involve kids. Each time the Merc came back he seemed less like his old self, less human, and tonight it seemed to be no different.

"What's it to be this time, Wade?" He asked as he stood up, approaching and pulling out a glass from beneath the bar.

Wade lifted his mask and growled out, "The hardest shit you have, Weasel. I'm gunning for a hangover tomorrow.  **That** ," he indicated the kill order with a nod, "was a doozy."

**[W: No one warned us there'd be tentacles.]**

"Fucking right they didn't, White. And whose fault is that?"

**[Y: Weasel's.]**

"Better hurry up that order, Weasel. The voices blame you."

"Wouldn't be the first time you or your voices have blamed me for something or other," Weasel rolled his eyes and sighed, turning around and finding one of the strongest alcohols he had left in stock to pour out a measure.

"When are you gonna give this a rest then? A day off?"

Wade hummed, tapering off into a growl before slamming back his shot and answering, "When I'm dead."

**[Y: Or someone gives Vanessa back.]**

"Yeah, well, that shit ain't happenin', so stop bringing it up, ya Jack in the Box little shite bastard."

**[W: 🌮🌮🌮🌮🌮]**

**[Y: 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕]**

A fight broke out in the background - - that happened a bit more often these days, but at least no one was *sad*. Wade groaned and motioned for another shot. "What's my next assignment?"

Weasel's frown of concern deepened as he leaned against the bartop, no attention being paid to the racket of the fight in the background. 

"I'm not sure giving you one so soon's a good idea. When's the last time you slept? Or bathed?"

**[W: 3 months, two weeks, and 5 days.]**

**[Y: You ARE starting to smell.]**

Wade slashed at the boxes with a katana. "You two can shut the fuck up!" Slamming back another shot, he shrugged. "So it's been a few weeks since I actually used soap. Plenty bodies of water, though. No rest for the wicked."

"Come on, man, you've gotta take a break or something." Weasel ran a hand over the back of his neck, sighing heavily as he had a feeling he knew what the response was going to be. "If you want more work then go take a bath and a nap, then come back."

Wade narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger, "I'm onto you, Weasel. You just wanna get me naked and wet and vulnerable. I am a GRIEVING WIDOWER. For shame!" He waggled fingers in the direction of his shot glass. "Gimme."

"Wade!" Weasel narrowed his eyes at his friend and shook his head, filling up the glass somewhat reluctantly. "One more then you're done, Wade. You're gonna go and sleep and come back for more work when you don't look like shit."

"What?" Weasel stiffened visibly, "what happened to your place? Where've you been sleeping up until now?" With each question the man seemed to grow more concerned and just a touch annoyed, "and why didn't you say anything before now?"

Wade shrugged and tried to pass off a sniffle as a scoff. "Too empty. I blew em up. Negasonic let me use her floor once, but my other lesbian daughter also disappeared, so I didn't stick around."

"Wade, for fucks sake," Weasel groaned, sliding his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "If you'd have said something I'd have let you crash out back in the spare room. Its full of junk right now but there's an old mattress you could use-."

Wade faceplanted and spoke directly into the counter, "Mm woulner werner mpores."

**[Y: Don't lead him on, you monster.]**

"Take the damn back and go get some shut eye, Wade." Weasel folded his arms up over his chest with a saddened expression. God, Vanessa wouldn't have wanted him to be this way.

Shit, had he said that aloud?

Wade's head snapped up, eyes focused with more clarity he had any right wielding given the alcohol he'd already consumed. "Fuckd you say?" He stood before Weasel could respond, chair flying and clattering behind him. "You think I'd be a DISAPPOINTMENT to her or sumthin? Huh? What fucking RIGHT do you have? You didn't fucking lose ANYONE you care about."

Weasel stiffened and took a step backward, his eyes widening fractionally at the merc with what couldn't be disguised as anything else but fright. 

"Shit, Wade, you know I didn't... I didn't mean it like that! I just- I don't think she'd want you being like... Well-."

"It doesn't MATTER what she'd want, though, does it? She's gone! AGAIN. I'm not a lucky enough bastard to get her back a second time. Just ain't in the damn cards. So FUCK THAT. I'll do whatever I need to." He didn't realize he had started crying or that the entire bar was clearing.

"So what, you're going to drift through life doing jobs for cash you don't actually care about?" Weasel's eyes narrowed, "we've all lost someone Wade, I'm not watching you drown your sorrows anymore. It's not happening."

"Yeah? So what's your plan, big guy? Gonna find this pretty mug a job worth having? Think you can find some *purpose* in this fucked up universe? Or maybe a portal to a mansion where this didn't happen? I could share with myself." Wade scoffed and turned to leave.

"Wade, c'mon," Weasel tried to reason, falling short as the other man turned away from him. "I'm your friend, I just don't want to see you wasting away-."

The merc's shoulders finally slumped, his defensive self-righteousness oozing from his frame. A gloved hand scrubbed at his face before pressing gently at the door. "I wasted away years ago, Weasel. Vanessa's brilliance just hid the radioactive mush." A sigh so strained it sounded painful escaped from his lips before the barely audible words, "I'll see you at home." 

A bit of wind caught the door and slammed it behind him, leaving the bar mostly empty and reverberating with a sadness everyone had steadfastly avoided. Weasel watched as Wade left and he could feel his heart crack for his friend, his eyes shutting for a moment to make sure he didn't show it too much. Then, he poured himself a shot and downed it, realising now more than ever he needed the drink.

They'd all lost someone.


	2. One Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one is handling the Snap well.

[ONE YEAR AFTER THE SNAP]

At 4 am, Wade sat in the living room of his shared flat, kept company by two mannequins. One had afro-inspired colouring, the other alabaster. Both wore clothing and wigs--one a fluff of brown, the other long black hair with a white streak. Wade's eyes were glued to an old cathode TV he'd managed to get turned on. It was stuck on static.

He didn't mind, though. He had his girls, and White and Yellow were giving in depth play by plays of the movie that wasn't playing.

The door to the flat slowly opened, creaking on its hinges as it swung and revealed a tired looking Weasel. His hand lingered on the door handle as though debating whether to close it as his eyes rested on the lump that was his friend on the couch. Quietly he puffed a sigh through his nose and walked in, closing the door behind him and rounding the couch to come into the merc's view. 

"Hey," he opened with, his tone perhaps a little uncertain. These days it was rather difficult to tell what kind of mood he would be in. "What you doing up?"

"We're watching this great movie. The voices call it Infinity War. Wanna join?"

Looking to the TV he frowned a little, watching the pixels buzz away on the screen for a few seconds and then turning back to Wade. 

"You know... there's nothing on screen, right? You're not even on any of the channels?"

"Hey, its not my fault you don't like docudramas,okay?" He gripped the sleeve of one of the mannequins. "Nessa likes it plenty, and Al's not complaining for once."

Oh Wade... Weasel shook his head and looked at the pair of mannequins with disdain. It was decided, he had to try and get him out of the flat. He'd been holed up for far too long. 

"Well, when you're done with that why don't you, I dunno, go for a walk or something? It's been nice weather lately-."

"That's a great idea! Do we have a wheelbarrow?" Wade's eyes had still not left the static.

"Why the hell would we, I, have a wheelbarrow?"

"Nessa's not feeling herself lately. I figure we're more likely to have a wheelbarrow than a wheelchair. You do have that pitiful attempt at a garden outside."

"What's wrong with my garden?!" Weasel protested and then pinched the bridge of his nose, "I was thinking maybe some alone time might be good. You know, give you and... 'Nessa' some time apart?"

Wade's eyes flicked to Weasel for a split second before he shrugged. "I dunno, man. I lost her once, don't wanna do it again. Why would we need time apart?"

"I'm not saying to go for days, just for an hour or something. Women want space sometimes too, y'know." Weasel attempted to reason, sinking his hands into his pockets.

**[W: He has a point.]**

**[Y: We could get 'changas.]**

Wade wriggled and stretched, "Why'd you guys pause the movie?"

“C’mon Wade, it'd do you some good.” 

Wade grumbled and threw his arms out wide, grumbling, “What’d a guy do to deserve getting teamed up on by his voices and his best friend, huh? Seriously uncool,” but moved toward the front door anyway.

“Just get out for a bit,” Weasel rolled his eyes and stepped to the side as Wade moved past, “get some air or something. Means I can clean up a bit.” He eyed the mannequins and frowned a little deeper.

Wade managed to take about six steps from the closed door before his lungs lit on fire and his heartbeat drowned out all other noise. **_How could he leave Vanessa_ ** ? What a fucking moron he was. Spinning on a dime, the merc burst back into the door and pulled a katana on Weasel, “Don’t you dare try to convince me to put her in danger again! I can’t... I can’t lose her! I have to stay by her side **_always_ **!”

“Wade!” Weasel held up his hands, his tone twisted into one of exasperation, “You need to live your life! You can't stay cooped up here forever, and you know you can't!” 

The men stood, gazes locked in a standstill for a few long minutes before Wade deflated, crumpling to the ground. “I miss her. I miss both of them. I can’t...” he trailed off as a sob shook his body.

The sudden change caught Weasel off guard, his eyes widening at the sound of a sob. Oh fuck, he knew things were tough for the merc but it was another thing to see him crumble. Carefully he crouched down beside Wade, hesitating before patting his shoulder. “I know… I know, it fucking sucks but-,” he hesitated. “You have to live for yourself, you know?”

A half-chuckle broke through the sobs, and Wade eventually managed to quip, “Weasel, buddy, you’n’me’ve known each other for a while now, yeah? You honestly think I was good at that even before I met Nessa? It’s over, man. **_I’m_ ** over.”

“No, shut up. You are **not** over.” Weasel frowned and grasped Wade's shoulders firmly, his voice a little bit shaky. “You're right, we've known each other for a long time. That's why I know you're gonna pull through this like all the other bits of crap you've had to get through. It ain't a quick thing overnight, but it'll happen eventually.”

Wade finally looked back at his longest friend, eyes swimming. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” Weasel met Wade's gaze evenly, his grip on the man's shoulders tightening a little before he went to let go. “You're Wade Wilson, when life gives you lemons you make a gin and tonic.”

The merc’s vision swam a bit before he pulled Weasel onto the ground with him and crushed him in an unyielding hug. “I may be a mess, but I sure know how to pick ‘em, eh? I love ya, buddy. I’m only tellin’ ya on account’a me being emotional, but it’s true.” His lips found the side of the other man’s head to plant a loud smooch. “I got lemons aplenty, but somewhere there’s a stocked bar for me to find.”

Weasel blinked a little bit and seemed to fumble, his arms slowly wrapping around Wade so he could pat his back. “Yea’ yea’, sap.” He mumbled, relief coursing through his chest as he rested his head against Wade's shoulder. Looked like the merc with a mouth wasn't over just yet.

******

[MEANWHILE...]

The man known by most as ‘Hawkeye’ glared at the shimmering reflections peering back at him from the tips of custom-made arrows. What was the point of building a life--of **loving** \--if it could be ripped so quickly and quietly from your grasp? Of the rules Coulson taught him after ‘recruiting’ him from the circus, all but one had been ripped from him during the Sokovia Accords. The last mandate--to build something he could love--was stolen along with his wife and children.

 _The boy known as Clint Barton glared at the grimy reflections peering back at him from the daggers he held. The Swordsman was about to be called out, and it would be time for him to pray the man’s throws thwanged near him and not_ **_in_ ** _him._

 _When he’d asked to apprentice, he thought he’d actually_ ** _learn_** **_something_** _useful. Instead, he lugged equipment and risked his life. True, he hadn’t been cut since the day he finally learned to stop flinching and just_ ** _stand still_** _, but you never knew. Even as young as he was, the teenager had seen plenty of acrobatic failures, sword swallowing throat spasms, and animalistic revenge. He knew all it took was a sneeze and he’d be gushing life._

_Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Trick Shot and Barney whispering to each other, nodding occasionally in his direction. Before he could think too hard on what that might mean, the Swordsman cuffed him about the ear. “We’re on, kid. Get your head on straight!”_

The world was on fire... and for once, it noticed. Gaping holes in governments world-wide ensured that it wasn't just **his** rules that were changing. While the world cried for the very heroes it had so recently vilified, Clint Barton questioned if they deserved a hero worth loving. He couldn’t bring himself to be Hawkeye anymore… couldn’t face Natasha. How could he look at her without hurting? How could **she** look at **him** without feeling the absence of everything they had built?

But… he couldn’t ignore the scum taking advantage of the Snap either.

_Clint wiped sweat from his brow as he ran a whetstone along one of his master’s swords. The Swordsman had caught him learning archery from Trick Shot and Barney. Sitting in the only sunny spot of the entire camp during the summer’s first heatwave was, apparently, a merciful punishment._

_He tried his damndest to think on the bright side--at least when he was done, The Swordsman promised he’d finally learn how to use some of the weapons he sharpened. That wasn’t the man’s exact words… but Clint was pretty sure he’d learned how to read between his lines by now._

_Hours later, blood joined the sweat, but Clint_ **_was_ ** _learning what the weapons could really do. He was also learning just how much he wished he’d learned some evasive techniques from the acrobats._

_All the same… a weapon was in his hand, and the discerning gaze of his master had a considering glint to it that was entirely new to Clint. He’d only seen it when helping The Swordsman gather the tips thrown during their performances. The idea that he might be as valuable as money was almost enough to make him forget the sting of sweat in wounds. Almost._

Hawkeye and Boy no more, Clint Barton locked his kit, quiver, bow, and every tangible scrap of his family in a safe. Gulping in a deep, desperate breath, the man moved to the cockpit of the quinjet he’d… **obtained** and took flight. As he flew over the Dead Sea, Clint dropped the safe and tried not to think about how much he wanted to remove his straps and be sucked into out along with it. That kind of thinking wouldn’t help anyone.

Instead, he focused on the global chatter of requests for help with gangs and murders--small things he was reasonably sure the remaining Avengers wouldn’t waste time with but couldn’t be ignored either. Sounded like France had a serial killer. It would do. He closed the quinjet’s bay and stroked the hilt of his katana.

_Barely still a boy, Clint Barton drew one of The Swordsman’s own katanas against him. The man laughed at his foolish bravery. “You think you can beat your master, boy? For what? Glory? Reknown?”_

_Clint shook his head fiercely. “I’ve ignored you stealing from patrons, but I can’t ignore you stealing from_ **_us_ ** _. This circus is supposed to be a_ **_family_ ** _!”_

_The Swordsman surged forward, tossing a couple of daggers. The boy just barely avoided the assault, moving smoothly into his own attack as other performers came to see what the noise was about._

_They exchanged blows until both were panting, sweating, and bloody. No one but Clint was crazy enough to get in the way of The Swordsman’s blades, but_ **_everyone_ ** _was rooting for the crazed apprentice. Swordsman hadn’t denied any of the boy’s claims._

_A particularly well aimed dagger sliced at Clint’s calf. The light in his eyes dimmed as he hit the ground, but before The Swordsman could attack again, a crossbow bolt lodged itself between his eyes. Trick Shot nodded to Barney before disappearing into the crowd. Clint didn’t think he was doing a very good job of containing his tears._

Whispers traveled the old routes of the criminal underbellies. A little slower than they used to, but the name _Ronin_ had begun to spread. Every now and then, he would come across someone who knew him on sight. Still no sign of the Avengers. Still a lot of gangs to disband. Coulson’s rules were coming back to practice slowly but surely.

All but the last.

******

Natasha had always prided herself on being collected in times of peril. There hadn't been a time more deserving of that than now. The Snap had taken so many that there wasn't a single person untouched by its devastation, not a single person didn't feel the hole their lost ones had left behind. She, of course, was no exception. 

She had been standing there for what felt like hours, gazing at the ranch with a heavy heart as the rain fell from above. If she closed her eyes she could almost pretend that she could hear the kids playing, hear Clint and Laura laughing together. No, she decided: there was no point in getting caught up in the nostalgia. It hurt more when she did. She had come here with a purpose, to find Clint. 

Finally she moved, approaching the house first. It was pretty unlikely that Clint would still be there if she was realistic, but there might be some indication of where he had gone. Opening the front door she stepped inside, scanning the area carefully and immediately making a few observations. One, there was a distinct layer of dust coating the furniture and floor. Completely undisturbed, as it had been for some time. Two, every picture that had once adorned the walls and was on almost every surface had been taken. It couldn't have been a robbery, nothing of monetary value has been taken, just the sentimental items. She hadn't been that far off when she'd guessed Clint had been here. But of course she wasn’t. She knew Barton all too well...

_“Trust me, little spider, this ranch is the safest place for us right now. You can let that guard down and recoop a bit,” he declared boldly, clapping a hand on her shoulder. His face held fewer lines; his eyes sparkled. No toys were strewn across the floor, and only two people’s shoes graced the entry hall._

_“Clint? Is that you?” a woman’s voice called from deeper in the house._

_Natasha glanced at him with a level of uncertainty, her arms folded over her chest to give her an appearance of nonchalance. Though, she never had been able to fool Clint entirely. She glanced in the direction of the woman's voice and sucked in a breath, remaining otherwise silent._

_Clint grinned and moved toward the voice, leaving Natasha at the door to proceed or not as she willed. “Yeah, hey, sweetie! I know it’s not a planned furlough, would’a called if I’d planned it.”_

_The owner of the voice, a young woman with long, brown hair, stepped into the hall. Her face was soft and warm... and maybe a little playful as her eyes skipped past him to gaze toward the door. “Bringing home strays again, Clinton Barnes? Whatever am I to do with you?”_

_“I couldn’t kill ‘er, Laur. She’s got too much good in ‘er. So... we’re letting both sides cool off a bit before reintroducing her to the world.” He ducked his head. “If that’s okay with you?”_

_One of her eyebrows raised in a way that implied further questions would come, but for the moment, she turned to Nat and smiled. “If my Clint says there’s good in you, then there is. You’re welcome to pick any room for yourself but the master; we have plenty. My name is Laura.”_

_There was a slight tick upwards of the corner of Natasha's lips, gone as quickly as it appeared, as she took a few steps forward and nodded politely. “Thank you… Laura.” Her gaze flicked from the other woman to Clint and back again as she cleared her throat. “My name is Natasha.”_

_“This is the best place to go when everything seems to be falling apart, Nat. You’ll be safe here; I promise.”_

It didn’t stay the best place forever, it seemed. Not without Laura. Without her it seemed as though everything had now fallen apart, leaving broken hearts in its wake. 

Natasha huffed at herself and closed her eyes, counting to five before heading towards the living room. It was the same as the hallway, barren and dusty and so empty now there wasn't the sound of footfall or the warmth from the fireplace. Her eyes drifted over the mantle and she paused, spotting shards of glass glittering in the light and piles of ash. “Clint,” she whispered to herself as she approached, crouching down to get a proper look. So that was where the pictures had gone… straight into the fire. Rising to her feet she turned, staring at the couch where they had all sat, once. They had laughed here, cried here, and so much more.

_Nat sat stiffly on the couch, holding a human so tiny she was surprised it could breathe. Clint had left the room, banished for his uproarious laughter, but Laura lent warmth to Nat’s thigh. “You’re not going to break him just by existing, you know.”_

_“He's so… small.” Nat swallowed to clear her throat, almost afraid to take her eyes off of the small being in her arms. “What if I hurt him somehow?” The possibilities were endless as to how, and she wanted to avoid every single one, so afraid to mess this up somehow._

_Laura laughed, a soft, musical bubble of noise that seemed to come from nowhere. “You_ **_won’t_ ** _. Just handle him with the delicacy that you do your weapons and throw in a bit of that heart you occasionally let us see. Auntie Nat will do just fine.”_

_Cooper grew, Lila was born... so was Nathaniel--the traitor--but her fears only seemed to grow with each birth._

Natasha turned away from the couch and bit her bottom lip, heading towards the kitchen to continue her search. The thought that she'd never hear those kids again, never see them smile at her, hurt too much to give more than a few seconds. She had a job to do, she reminded herself, she couldn't let her emotions cloud her head at this point. 

The kitchen was as empty as the hall and living room, all except the dishes still in the sink untouched. Natasha didn't move further into the room, lingering by the doorway as she thought of Laura. Such a kind woman, a good woman, caring and understanding to a fault. She had made Nat feel cared about from the start, warm and friendly as she was. She and Laura had had many conversations here in the early hours of the morning; when Clint had gone to sleep and nothing could wake him and Laura could see from the window the light from the kitchen upon the grass outside and took it upon herself to join a sleepless Natasha.

_Shortly after their return from--and mandatory ‘vacation’ following--Budapest, Laura found Natasha staring at the sunrise through the kitchen window. Her eyes distant, body tense. They’d known each other long enough for Laura to have several guesses at what might be going through the redhead’s mind. “He doesn’t blame you.”_

_“He should.” Natasha didn't look away from the window, her voice much quieter than usual. “He'd be an idiot not to.”_

_“Do you blame him for the shrapnel that nearly shredded your gut during that mission last Fall?” Somehow her tone was scolding and coaxing._

_“What? Of course not.” She turned to look at the other woman finally, her brows furrowed at even the implication that it could have been anyone's fault but her own._

_“The way Clint tells it, I should have kicked him out when I learned what happened and nursed you back to health myself,” Laura countered with a raised eyebrow. “You’re both idiots. Blaming yourselves for things that couldn’t possibly be your fault. I won’t claim to be an expert, but I know missions just go bad sometimes.”_

_A mostly comfortable silence stretched for a bit before Laura changed tactics, “That’s not the only thing about Budapest bothering you, though, is it?”_

_For a rare moment, Natasha looked genuinely uncomfortable. She looked down and folded her arms over her chest, as though her attempt at composure were a defensive mechanism. “I…” God, she couldn't do this. It was going to ruin everything;_ **_she_ ** _had ruined everything. “I'm sorry.”_

_Eyes that should have been judging, betrayed, cold were... just as warm and welcoming as ever--if a little sad. “Clint hasn’t told me anything, but I know how to read between his lines--and yours sometimes.” Laura gripped Nat’s hand and squeezed, gently. “I don’t mind, Natasha, if the two of you need each other sometimes. I don’t have to be the only comfort in my husband’s life. I’ve known from the moment he dragged your ass into my house that you were more than just the latest partner.”_

_Natasha looked at Laura with wide, confused eyes. She had expected at least some anger, some reaction besides the warm understanding she had become accustomed to. She didn't_ **_deserve_ ** _this kindness, she had gotten involved in ways she shouldn't have. “But… I-.” What could she say? Her vision began to blur with unshed tears and she blinked them away as quickly as she could. “Why are you so_ **_good_ ** _?”_

_Laura shrugged and squeezed once more before turning to leave the room. “What can I say? Clint has a type.”_

Her vision was blurred now, though there was no one to hide any tears from. So who cared if Natasha let her emotions show this once? She was allowed to cry just this once. Quickly she turned, heading to the bedrooms and taking a peek at each one in turn. Wave after wave of emotion washed over her and she hesitated once again, fighting to regain a little composure. If Clint wasn't here as she expected he wasn't, she had to find him soon. 

The door to the master bedroom swung open with a creak, and she stepped inside, looking from the neatly made bed to the open curtains as the rain pattered against the window. Just as the rest of the place, all the photos had been taken and presumably were ash downstairs. She approached the bed and sat on the end, putting her head into her hands. She had hoped Clint would have been near, or would have left a sign. She would have hoped he'd have kept in touch or given her anything to go off of. 

“You jackass,” she mumbled, fighting another wave of tears. “I thought we'd be together in this…”

_Clint called out to her as she passed the master bedroom. The door was mostly closed, but she supposed Stark Tech hearing aids were bound to be overpowered. Inside, Laura and Clint lounged on the bed, looking as sappy and gleeful as she’d ever seen._

_“You two are as bad as teenagers,” Nat smirked as she nudged the door shut behind her, arching a brow expectantly. “What is it?”_

_“Laura’s not been feeling too well in the mornings... in a familiar kind of way. So, she went to the doctor while we were on our last mission,” Clint answered, playing with a few pieces of paper._

_Laura rolled her eyes and continued, “I’m pregnant again. We want to name it Natasha. Or Nathaniel.”_

_“Wait, what?” Natasha felt herself smile as she approached to linger at the side of the bed. “Pregnant? And you're naming them-?”_

_Clint pulled her onto the bed between them as Laura chuckled, “They may not have your genes, Natashenka, but you helped make them.”_

_The marksman nodded eagerly. “We want it to have a little bit of you. This baby is_ **_ours_ ** _. All three of us.”_

_“I… don't know what to say.” She looked from Laura to Clint in absolute adoration, though it was only obvious from the softness of her gaze. They didn’t need her to say anything; just as she and Laura had learned sign language for Clint, Clint and Laura had learned the language of micro-expressions for her._

Nat wiped her eyes mercilessly until convinced they were dry. There was no intel here. She should leave before any more ghosts came to haunt her.

******

[SIX MONTHS LATER]

Wade stalked through a winding alleyway. In other circumstances, he might have noted how pretty it was, with its brightly coloured houses and ivy-covered archways. To his credit, the bright colours **were** rather muted in the uncertain light of the crescent moon.

**[Y: I can’t believe Weasel finally gave us another job.]**

“Me. Weasel gave **me** a job,” Wade ground out through his mostly-clenched jaw.

**[W: Especially after that near vigilante murder last month.]**

“Weasel’s ways are mysterious,” the near-murderer hedged.

**[Y: Maybe he thought getting a kill in would save the petty criminals from your wrath.]**

“You don’t know shit, you stupid box.” Wade crouched. “Shhh. I hear someone.”

**[W: They can’t hear us, numbnuts. We’re your boxes.]**

**[Y: You’re stuck with us!]**

Sticking to the shadows, and ignoring his voices as best he could, Wade made his way toward the noise. When he reached an intersection, the mercenary had barely enough time to think about looking up before something solid and human-like landed on his shoulders. As he crashed to the ground, Wade tried to get a glimpse of his assailant. Instead, he was met with a strangely holey katana. “Good to meet you, Mr. Spank Sword, care to introduce yourself before taking my head off?”

A gruff chuckle preceded the assailant’s retreat. “Wilson. I should have recognized the uniform.”

Wade stood slowly and cracked his neck as he took in the other man’s appearance. “Barton?”

“Ronin,” the hooded and masked figure stated firmly.

**[W: New name, new digs... same guy. What d’ya wanna bet?]**

In American Sign Language, Wade signed, “Nice name, lover boy.” He was answered with an exasperated huff. “New costume?”

Aloud, the man known mostly as a mystery answered, “It was time for a change. Why are you here, Wilson?”

“Bounty. Same as usual. Some low-life creep who deserves to have his bits strung on a necklace for him.” The merc with a mouth shrugged before continuing, “And you? I don’t see or hear a team.”

“Solo mission. I... no longer ‘play’ with others.” Wade waited patiently--

**[W: He’s trying to get rid of us.]**

**[Y: Maybe not. You just don’t like him because you don’t understand Sign.]**

**[W: Lies. And slander. And falsehoods.]**

“If you’re going after Pelini, you’ll have to ‘play’ just this once,” he offered with a winning smile.

“I don’t care about the bounty, Wilson. You can claim it all you like,” Ronin countered.

“It hasn’t just been about bounties in years, Barton. You know that.” Wade frowned inside his mask.

**[W: Told you.]**

“Shut the fuck up, White. No one asked you.”

Ronin shifted subtly, muscles tensing as he answered, “That’s not the tale people are spinning. Sounds like you’ve gone back to your old ways.”

Wade cocked his head to the side. “If you **_believed_ ** that, I’d already be dead. Unless... you’re operating on new rules?”

“The world’s changed, Wilson.”

“. . . that it has. All the same, I’m not abandoning this task to anyone. You’ll have to work with me, trust me, or fight me.”

“I don’t have time for this. . .” the vigilante sighed. “Just don’t get in my way.”

“Little ol’ me? Never!”

******

Since returning from Sakaar, it seemed to Natasha that Bruce’s only concern was building upon their attraction. She had lost **everything** and every **one** \--especially if her theories about the masked, hooded swordsman were right. She had to man mission central and send their remaining heroes where they were needed most. She didn’t have **time** for romance… and she wasn’t sure if she still had the **heart** for it.

While she doubted, Bruce still held out hope. Throughout the duration of his time on Sakaar plenty had changed. He had forgotten himself, lost to the other ‘him’ and trapped within himself. But, he had also forgotten her. Natasha. Upon his return, upon learning of those lost and of those who remained, he knew he had to take the chances that he very easily could have lost.

Nat nearly groaned when she saw him approaching again. Through Friday’s speakers, she chastised, “I told you I’m not going anywhere, Bruce. Stop wasting your time!”

“I- well, yes, I know you did.” Bruce ran a hand over the back of his neck, scratching at it as he cleared his throat. “That’s why I thought I’d bring something to you instead.” His other hand raised a small bag, waving it carefully and drawing it to her attention.

The redhead faltered, torn between turning him down for principle’s sake and taking his offer at face value until her stomach grumbled. “I suppose that’s… acceptable. Grab a chair.” She gestured vaguely around the holotable, refusing to meet his eyes. “What did you bring?”

As he approached he ducked his gaze, as though eye contact would suddenly have Nat turning him away as she had done a number of times until now. “Bits and pieces of what I could find,” he admitted, wetting his lips nervously as the bag was placed on the table. Small tupperware containers were retrieved one by one and placed out between them for her perusal. “I hope that’s… okay?”

Only her extensive training kept the reach of her hand steady. Inside, Natasha was terrified and guilty. What right did **she** have to happiness in this new world? “Anything is fine, Bruce. You… you know I’ll eat anything.” She inspected a tupperware container with narrowed eyes. “ **Almost** anything. Even Thor wouldn’t eat this right now. Are you taking care of yourself?” She scolded, offering back the molding container.

“Of course I am,” Bruce said quickly, though upon setting his eyes on the container he grimaced guiltily. “God, I’m sorry. That’s… unpleasant-.”

“If any of the others are in the same condition, I’m setting Steve on your kitchen,” the spy-turned-coordinator warned. A smile teased at the corner of her mouth--the only hint that she was more concerned than insulted.

“I don’t think I have to tell you why that idea is frightening,” he managed with a huff of laughter, making a move to grab one of the other containers for inspection. His fingers twitched at the lid, betraying his anxiety. “They should be fine. I’m not sure how that one got caught up in with the rest, but… no, the rest should be perfectly fine.”

She was a little surprised when every remaining container passed inspection. With a short huff of breath, she picked up the container with porkchops, sweet potatoes, and asparagus. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Bruce. Do you remember where the microwave is?”

“I do, unless it’s been relocated elsewhere in the last while.” He said dryly, dropping his eyes to the container in his hands. “It, uh, hasn’t… has it?”

Nat rolled her eyes. “No, Bruce. I haven’t rearranged anything since the Snap. Be a doll and warm this up for me?”

With a smile, Bruce nodded and collected her container as well as his own. “Right, yeah, no problem.” He ducked out quickly, humming an unintelligible tune as he went. Truthfully, this was going much better than he had anticipated.

When he returned, Natasha finally met his eyes. Their hands touched when she took the container back from him, and she seemed to freeze. Her pupils dilated and breath shallowed. “Thank you, Bruce,” she nearly whispered.

With that, his chest squeezed tight and pulled the breath from him. For a few seconds he was unsure what to do, what to say, but then he seemed to remember himself and he hummed softly from the back of his throat. “You’re welcome, Natasha,” he murmured quietly in reply, meeting her eyes. His initial surprise softened into something warm and gentle, something that only appeared to be reserved for her.

They ate in near-silence. With no one else around, they were able to simply exist in comfortable quiet like they’d never done before. Musing on it after he left, Nat had to admit it was nice. Not that there was a flutter or spark or anything so cliche as that in her heart. Not at all.


End file.
